Team Effort
by Star Shadow 4
Summary: "It isn't really this moment that gets him. It's all the little moments he's been noticing, the way Abe's eyes follow Mihashi as they clamber onto the bus, the way their knees brush when they're sitting in the team circle." In their 3rd year, the Nishiura players observes the changing relationship between Abe and Mihashi, and wonder where it's headed. AbeMiha; multi-chapter story.
1. Oki

A/N: I liked the idea of incorporating the rest of the Nishiura team into an Abe/Mihashi story. This will be a multi-chapter story, Abe and Mihashi's developing relationship through the eyes of their teammates. Set in the characters' third year. Please enjoy, and review if you'd like to see more.

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**Team Effort**

1.

Abe likes Mihashi.

Oki isn't even sure where the thought comes from. One moment it's just any morning, watching the sunrise through the trees at the edge of the field while he lethargically rakes the line between first and second base, his eyes gritty and his oatmeal heavy in his stomach, marveling that even after three years he's never really gotten used to these early morning practices—and the next he's wide awake, this thought resounding in his head like a gong, as clear as if somebody shouted it across the field. He even glances over at Tajima, the only person on the team he could imagine doing that—but the third baseman's just hanging out in the dugout, joking around with some of the first and second years who idolize him because he's such an absolute natural. The team's gotten bigger over the years as they started putting Nishiura on the map, but Oki can still pick out each of his original nine teammates without even trying, his eyes drawn to them like beacons in the dusky light.

And maybe that's why, as he resumes raking, he finds his gaze moving to the pair inside the batting cage, Nishiura's one and only ace batting to the machine while his catcher watches from two steps back, arms crossed over his chest. Abe's become one of their most reliable hitters, but that's not why he's in there, Oki knows that. The first baseman watches him cross to shut off the pitching machine, jog back to adjust the pitcher's form with his hands on Mihashi's hips. Mihashi obliges, turns twice with his arms extended for an imaginary bat, his elbow brushing Abe's chest on the release.

It's not an unusual scene for them. Oki's never really understood how it started, but they've been inseparable since that first practice game against Mihoshi three years ago—and if that was a rocky road at first, they've got it down to an art now. Mihashi's still pretty flighty and Abe still has a temper, but more often than not, when Oki looks at them these days, he sees this: a seamless battery, two people who fit together like matched puzzle pieces. He doesn't even blink anymore when Abe jogs to the mound during a game and takes Mihashi's hand, just glad there's somebody on their team who knows how to calm Mihashi down with a single touch.

But somehow it's hitting him differently this morning.

The pitching machine is back on. Abe retreats to lean against the chain-link fence around the cage, and as he watches the catcher's face, those dark eyes never leaving Mihashi's form, Oki realizes that it isn't this moment he's really registering. It's all the little moments he's been noticing recently, the way Abe's gaze follows Mihashi as they all clamber onto the bus, the way their knees brush sometimes when they're sitting in the team circle, the way he's sometimes caught Abe watching Mihashi walk away at the end of practice with _that look_ on his face, _that look_ Oki sees all the time on his mother's favorite Korean dramas but never thought was a real look until he saw it on _Abe_ of all people, and that one time he caught it in the mirror when he was thinking about Nishiura's third-base coach…

Oki turns away from the cage, focuses on his raking. It's not like he's going to say anything about it. He can't say he's never had a crush on a teammate. It's hard _not_ to get a little infatuated when they spend fourteen hours a day together…

Mihashi's laugh drags his gaze back in time to watch the pitcher pull his helmet off and take his ball cap with it, fumbling as he tries to hang onto both. Abe grabs his hat out of the air and settles it firmly on his head, pushing it down with a smile. Oki blinks, swallows a little too hard, watches the pair slip out of the batting cage with Abe's hand pressed to the small of Mihashi's back.

Then again, there's always the possibility that this isn't a crush. It's a long shot, an outside pitch, but there's always a chance that Abe is really, actually in—

Oki turns away before he has to know for sure.


	2. Izumi

A/N: I liked the idea of incorporating the rest of the Nishiura team into an Abe/Mihashi story. This will be a multi-chapter story, Abe and Mihashi's developing relationship through the eyes of their teammates. Set in the characters' third year. Please enjoy, and review if you'd like to see more.

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2.

Abe's an idiot. That's the conclusion Izumi comes to when he slides back the door to the third years' room in the bunkhouse and finds Mihashi sleeping with his head in the catcher's lap.

It's day three of a five-day training camp, their first of the summer, and they've all been going nonstop since morning. Izumi lost track of the battery maybe an hour ago, when he took over fielding drills for the junior outfielders, but suffice to say this isn't how he expected to find them: Abe sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall and a chemistry textbook open in the crook of his right arm, flipping the pages with the tip of his thumb so he can keep the left side of his body absolutely still. Mihashi's got his head pillowed on the catcher's thigh, his face turned into Abe's stomach, and in the second after the door opens but before he's really processed everything Izumi notices that his fingers are lightly clenched in Abe's shirt, like he's curled them in his sleep. Izumi looks at Abe and Abe stares back at him with those dark, unreadable eyes, and Izumi can just feel the _shhh_ in his teammate's mind, but Abe doesn't have a finger to put to his lips—well, he could disentangle his left hand from Mihashi's hair, but Izumi has a feeling that hand hasn't moved an inch since it stopped brushing blond strands back behind Mihashi's ear.

Izumi stares at them for a long moment, and then another one. Then he shakes his head, steps over the crinkly foil chip bag Tajima left on the ground, and gets what he came for: his swimsuit, lurking at the bottom of his duffle bag. He can't help glancing over his shoulder one more time before he slides the door shut, keeping out the noise of the team invading the pool and keeping in the whisper of Abe turning another page, his eyes moving between the diagram of valence electrons and Mihashi's quiet face. If Abe's actually absorbing anything out of that textbook, Izumi will eat his shoes.

The thing is, Abe's always been like this, to a certain extent. Focused. Devoted. Recently, though, it feels like he's taken it up a notch. It would be one thing if he was obsessed with baseball, or even if he was obsessed with winning—they're third years, after all; if there ever was a time for it, it's now. But he's not. He's obsessed with _Mihashi_, and that's…that's…Izumi's not sure what that is, but it kind of weirds him out.

"Where're Mihashi and Abe?" Tajima asks, when he finally makes it to the pool.

Izumi rolls his eyes. "Napping," he decides, because that's honest enough to put him off.

Oki holds his gaze too long, like he's trying to pick the details out of Izumi's brain, like maybe he's seen something too, but Izumi turns away, dives into the deep end of the pool before they can finish colluding telepathically. He's not really looking to swap theories. Honestly, he just finds Abe and Mihashi exhausting, and if that's what love's like then he never wants to be in it. Even if he has occasionally felt his eyes wandering over to left field…

He starts a water fight and dunks Mizutani extra hard to knock that thought out of his head.

He's the first out of the water—after the third time Tajima tries to yank off his trunks—which means he's the first through the showers, the first leaving his wet footprints along the balcony walk to the bedroom, listening to the whoops and laughter of the rest of the team finally piling into the locker room, Hanai shouting for order. He's more cautious opening the door this time, surprised anyway to find his pitcher and catcher just as he left them. Izumi's really just after his iPod, is tempted to leave without a word again, but he can't quite stop himself from pausing in the doorway, leaning into the jamb and looking at them again in the sunset light: the way Mihashi's curled in like he's never felt safer than where he is right now, the way Abe's soothing his temple with the pad of his thumb. Abe looks up at Izumi over the chemistry book he won't need to read again until October and Izumi clears his throat, speaks in that soft way that three years of talking over sleeping heads on buses and in close quarters has taught him.

"We could move him, y'know," he says, because he has to say something.

Abe looks down, shakes his head so softly Izumi barely catches the gesture. "It's fine. He doesn't sleep well at camp. You know that."

Izumi sort of knows that, the way he sort of knows Tajima and Mizutani were dragging their asses today because they were up all night messing with Sakaeguchi's Game Boy—but not the way Abe sounds like he knows it, like maybe Mihashi came to him rubbing those big brown eyes, leaned his head against Abe's shoulder. It freaks him out how clearly he can picture that. And then it hits him for the first time that he's caught Abe in a vulnerable moment here—that maybe Mihashi doesn't realize what it means for Abe to sit up like this with his head in his lap, what his catcher's trying to offer him. But Abe does, and now Izumi does too, and it makes him feel weird and sad and awkwardly sympathetic all at the same time. It's not a feeling he really knows what to do with.

Izumi closes his eyes, runs a hand through his damp hair. Then he crosses to Abe's open backpack and pulls out a math workbook instead, swaps it for the chemistry book that's had more than its time. Abe blinks.

"Here. Diversify, at least," Izumi grumbles under his breath. Then he steps across the chaos of futons and shuts the door silently behind him, thinking maybe he was okay not knowing Abe was that human.


	3. Mizutani

A/N: I liked the idea of incorporating the rest of the Nishiura team into an Abe/Mihashi story. This will be a multi-chapter story, Abe and Mihashi's developing relationship through the eyes of their teammates. Set in the characters' third year.

Thanks for the kind reviews, everyone. Hopefully the story will continue to satisfy.

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3.

Abe likes Mihashi, but it might not be that one-sided. At least, that's what Mizutani thinks.

There's this convenience store near the field where they like to stop after practice, if it's a clear night and they're not quite done horsing around, kicking at each other with light feet as they bike en masse toward the parking lot radiant under a fluorescent sign. It's mostly a free-for-all, flashing chrome and jutting elbows and Tajima racing ahead, Hanai shouting after him not to hit the curb too fast and wipe out again. Usually Mizutani'd be right there with him, but he's in the middle of the group for once, trapped behind Oki and Suyama pedaling at a more sedate pace, and that's why he's the one to notice Abe and Mihashi lagging at the end of the pack, riding almost knuckle to knuckle and talking so quietly all he can hear is the little chirp that means Abe's made their pitcher laugh. When they pull into the lot and dismount, Abe waits next to Mihashi while the blond fumbles with his bike lock, and Mihashi keeps stealing astonished glances up at him, like he expects Abe to disappear between one second and the next. Mizutani shakes his head and steps inside the store, makes a face at Nishihiro over the shelves as he ducks down the candy aisle.

It's not like it's breaking news or anything, but recently it seems like the two members of Nishiura's battery have started to orbit each other in a different way. It's more obvious on Abe, because he used to be kind of a jerk, but Mizutani's pretty sure he's seen it on Mihashi too, this new, wide-eyed fixation. It's hard to miss Abe's little smile when he waves at Mihashi across the practice field; hard to miss the fact that he always takes the futon next to Mihashi's when they're bunking overnight at training camp, or the way he drapes his coat around Mihashi's shoulders on chilly nights like tonight, smoothing the fabric down against the pitcher's back as they finally come inside. But if you're looking for it, like Mizutani's started to, it's just as hard to miss the way Mihashi shines like the sun when he waves back so hard his hand goes out of focus, or the way he waits until everyone's in bed and the lights are out to scoot just a little closer to Abe, the sheets of his futon crinkling as he erases a few more inches between them; the way he sinks into Abe's coat, like he's doing now, slips his arms through the too-long sleeves and tucks his hands into the pockets like he never wants to come out.

Mihashi turns toward the freezer section along the back wall and meets Mizutani's gaze, and the left fielder jumps, embarrassed to be caught staring; he gives a rushed salute, bends down to study the candy on the bottom shelf, less because he's a huge fan of gummy worms than to hide his flushing face.

If Mihashi feels like Abe feels, Mizutani's pretty sure he doesn't know it. He's just reacting subconsciously to Abe's attention, the way it makes him feel like he's glowing inside. Mizutani knows that feeling. He's always kind of felt that way around Chiyo, and then there was that time he spent two weeks freaking himself out about their third baseman, who's so cool that sometimes, when he shoots a thumbs up back toward the dugout before he steps up to the plate, Mizutani's heart kind of gives a little jerk…

Mizutani slaps both of his cheeks to snap himself out of it, heads to the register with his face stinging and red.

He gets the gummy worms in the end—because why the hell not, it's been like six years—and then loops back to find Mihashi still just standing in front of the freezer section, staring into the misty glass. Mizutani taps his shoulder and manages to dodge the accompanying spaz attack.

"What's up?" he asks. Izumi's wandered over too, already sucking down his slushy, and Mizutani can see Abe coming up hard behind him, somehow sensing his pitcher's distress from across the store. Mihashi looks at him and then back at the case, staring particularly hard at the empty space on the second shelf. Izumi leans over Mizutani's shoulder, frowning thoughtfully.

"They out of something?"

Mihashi fidgets with the sleeves of his borrowed coat. "C-coconut…"

"Oh, yeah. You like those coconut ice cream bars, huh?" the right fielder says. He glances over at Abe, who's just standing to Mihashi's right, staring at the freezer now too with a look of intense concentration, like it's a batter whose rhythm he can't get.

Mizutani kind of knows what Izumi's waiting for—the Abe who used to lose his temper, who would smack Mihashi on the back of the head and bark at him to choose something else already—but that's not how this goes anymore, and Mizutani knows what's coming before it does, sees the catcher's expression soften in the split second before he lifts his hand and squeezes Mihashi's shoulder.

"I'll ask. Give me a sec."

Izumi rolls his eyes, like only Abe would feel the need to go all knight-in-shining-armor over an ice cream bar, but from the way Mihashi's staring after him, hands clasped as he watches Abe stroll toward the register, Mizutani thinks the vice-captain's probably on the right track. He throws an arm over their pitcher's shoulders. "Come on. Let's wait outside with everybody else."

Mihashi startles a little, hesitates against the glass. "But…if he finds one…I have to pay…"

"Abe'll pay," Izumi says, sounding either disgusted or grudgingly impressed. "Don't worry about it."

The parking lot is loud with their teammates' laughter, these voices that have gotten so familiar over the last three years echoing out into the night. Mihashi leans against the bike rack, peering through the glass at Abe talking with the clerk, and Mizutani takes the spot next to him, pops a few gummy worms into his mouth. About the time the first one is slithering down his throat, it hits him that this is it, kind of—their last year together before college, careers, pro ball, dorms, apartments, commuting, whatever. It's amazing how fast the time has gone. The night air seems a little sweeter the next time he breathes in, but that might just be aftertaste. The words are on his tongue before he realizes it.

"It's crazy to think it's already our third year, huh?"

Mihashi turns to him slowly, blinks a few times. "Because we're…so old?" he guesses, scuffing his feet.

Mizutani laughs. "Nah. I just meant…it's our last year. As a team. This time, when it's over, it's really over, y'know?"

Mihashi's eyes get a little too wide. Mizutani doesn't miss the teeth sinking into his bottom lip, the way his gaze darts back through the window to Abe at the register, like he's just realizing for the first time that this, what they have, it won't go on forever. He can almost feel the breath catch in Mihashi's throat.

Mihashi sinks farther into Abe's coat, hides his face in the raised collar. "But it's just starting—the season," he says, so quietly Mizutani barely hears him. "There's still plenty of time."

"Yeah," Mizutani agrees, because he feels kind of bad, can see the edge of panic in Mihashi's eyes. Luckily, that's the moment Abe steps through the automatic door with an individually wrapped ice cream bar in one hand and a little quirk of a smile at the corners of his lips. Mihashi starts up from the bike rack, jerks forward a few steps before stuttering to a stop, like it's all he can do not to run to him.

Abe raises an eyebrow. "This is what you wanted, right?"

Mihashi nods so hard he could probably snap his neck, closes the distance between them to unwrap the ice cream bar with lightly shaking fingers. Left behind, Mizutani rubs the back of his neck with a guilty hand. Mihashi's so much better than he was their first year—better about talking, about making friends, about laughing at his own expense—that sometimes the left fielder forgets how easy it still is to freak him out.

Mihashi pulls the paper away and tucks the wrapper into a pocket, stares at his coconut ice cream—and if Abe notices that the blond's empty hand has found his, five pale fingers fastened around his wrist, he doesn't say anything about it. Mihashi blinks up at him with eyes that are almost gold in the glow of the convenience store sign.

"F-first bite," he insists, raising the ice cream bar, "because you found it."

Mizutani shakes his head. Mihashi's right, he knows—the season's barely begun. Who knows how far they could go this year. But somehow, he just has this feeling that however much time they have, it's not going to be enough.


	4. Suyama

A/N: I liked the idea of incorporating the rest of the Nishiura team into an Abe/Mihashi story. This will be a multi-chapter story, Abe and Mihashi's developing relationship through the eyes of their teammates. Set in the characters' third year.

This is a chapter I've been waiting to write. I hope you enjoy it.

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4.

Abe's gotten better about raising his voice to Mihashi, but for once, Suyama forgives him. Even this far away, standing with his back pressed to the wall in the stadium locker room and listening to the catcher's voice echo off the tiles, he can tell this is Abe desperate, not angry. They're all a little desperate right now.

It's been a long, hard-fought season. As always, it seems like the deck's been stacked against them, facing off with one nationally ranked team after another. But after weeks of hard hitting, skidding into second, and miracle plays at home plate, they've finally fought their way here—to the top of their bracket, top of the seventh, one win away from qualifying to compete at Koshien. And in spite of the sweat soaking everyone's jerseys, in spite of half the crowd cheering for them and the first- and second-year relievers screaming their lungs out on the bench, Suyama's just not sure they have enough to go all the way.

He's up to bat in four, has just stepped into the locker room to change his undershirt, clear his head. They're down by two runs, which isn't so bad. What's bad is that the other team's got Mihashi's pitch figured out. What's bad is that they faced off eight batters before they managed to get the third out and close the bottom of the sixth, and not one of those batters struck out. Suyama leans his head back against the wall, tries not to remember the stricken look on their pitcher's face as he stumbled off the field, so white Suyama worried he was going to pass out. Abe's arm around his waist seemed like all that was holding him up.

They have a few relief pitchers now, but nobody good enough to pitch against this team. In many ways, they're exactly where they were that first year: if Mihashi comes out, they lose. God, he doesn't want to lose, not when they're this close. He doesn't want to let anyone down—especially not the second baseman, who always shoots him such an amazing smile when they win…Suyama squeezes his eyes shut, tries to get into his batting headspace, forget about the ball he fumbled in the fourth that cost them an easy double play.

His concentration is broken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway between the dugout and the locker room, the clatter of cleats on the concrete floor. For a second he thinks someone's coming in, but instead the footsteps stop right outside—he hears the soft thump of something hitting the wall, the pitiful, shuddering sound of Mihashi crying. His heart crunches a little in his chest. Then Abe's voice, low and soothing:

"Breathe, okay? Just breathe for a second."

Suyama straightens, can't resist edging silently toward the door, peering around the corner to see what's going on. Mihashi's got his back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his stomach like he's trying to hold himself together, and Abe's standing in front of him, leaning close, one hand braced next to Mihashi's head. To a stranger, he might almost look menacing, but Suyama knows Abe knows what he's doing, has seen the way Mihashi relaxes when Abe surrounds him like a shield. It's not working today, judging by the tears sliding down the pitcher's cheeks.

Mihashi sucks in a quivering breath. "E-every—every pitch got hit." He trembles when he says it, his voice breaking in the middle.

Abe shakes his head. "Every pitch gets hit eventually. Look, we've faced teams like this before. We can still do this."

It's amazing how calm he sounds; Suyama can't read him well enough to tell if any part of it's a front. But one look at their pitcher's slack face, blank eyes staring through his catcher's chest as if he were insubstantial, is enough to know Mihashi isn't hearing him; he's already in panic mode, his breaths getting higher and faster as he shrinks into himself.

"I'm not—good enough. I can't…I-I c-c-can't…outpitch them, and—"

"Mihashi."

There's an edge in Abe's voice now, just enough to tell Suyama that Mihashi's scaring him, too. The shortstop wants to help, to step out into the hallway and offer whatever support he can, but something holds him back. Maybe it's just how private this moment feels, the members of Nishiura's battery standing so close they could bleed into each other, sheltered by the thunder of noise from the stadium overhead (God, he hopes that's a hit, not an out)—maybe it's because Abe's the only one who can ask what he's asking right now, one hand slipping from the wall to settle over his pitcher's collarbone while the other hovers in the air.

"Mihashi, give me your hand."

Mihashi obeys automatically, pressing right hand to left, but even from the first moment of contact Suyama can see that he's slipping away, his fingers limp and shaking. Abe has to grab him just to keep their palms together. Mihashi's eyelashes shiver with fresh tears.

"It's going to be over. Ev…everything. And it's my…m-my fault because I'm not—I've n-never been good enough—"

"Mihashi, look at me. Mihashi!"

Suyama feels Abe's desperation break in the instant before he moves—slides his grip around to Mihashi's wrist, tugs that precious right hand up to his face and presses his lips hard into the cradle of his palm, dark eyes shut tight. The shock of it hits Suyama like a thunderclap, tingling in his veins—he sees the same shock mirrored on Mihashi's face, those glistening brown eyes open wide as Mihashi stares at his catcher, his captive hand, the point of contact where the two collide. He blinks and a few stray tears slip down his cheeks, utterly forgotten in the moment when Abe opens his eyes, pulls back just far enough to disengage lips from skin.

"What did I say about breathing?"

For a second, breathing is all any of them can do—Suyama leans back into the wall, one hand caging his thrashing heart, not sure what he's witnessing through the sliver of the doorway. Mihashi's breath had stopped altogether in the moment Abe moved, but gradually Suyama hears it stutter back into a normal rhythm, both halves of the battery breathing in time. Abe gives a long sigh, runs a hand through his black hair.

"Listen to me. We're not out of this yet. We've come back from worse. I know you're scared, but it's not just you out there. It's me," he says, and Suyama wonders if Abe notices the way his hand clenches around Mihashi's, as if to prove it. "It's all of us. Yeah, they're going to hit it—" Mihashi shudders a little in his hold. "—but the team can handle that. _We _can handle that. You just have to trust me."

Mihashi jerks his head up, struggles to speak through his trembling lips. "I—I…I al-always—"

"I know," Abe says. "I trust you, too. And most of the time, that's enough. But right now, I need you to rely on me like you used to, when we first teamed up. Put everything you've got in me, just one more time."

Mihashi stares at him for a long moment, silent, speechless. Then Suyama sees his shoulders relax, his small body slumping boneless against the wall, all the pain and fear suddenly gone from his face—because trusting Abe, well, that's something Mihashi's never had to fight for. Mihashi tips his head, looks up at Abe for the first time with clear eyes. The catcher still has that pale, callused hand pressed to his cheek, close enough for Mihashi to trace his thumb across the line of his mouth; Suyama's not sure which of them to blame for the way Abe's lips catch against the pad.

"Can you do that for me?" Abe asks, though he doesn't have to.

Mihashi nods, offers something that's almost a smile. "Y-yes."

Abe nods back. "Okay. Then let's do this."

They're a few steps down the hall, almost out of sight from the locker room doorway, when Mihashi stops short, pulls back on the hand that's still laced through his partner's. Abe pauses, glances over his shoulder. Suyama watches Mihashi fidget with the seam of his sleeve.

"Abe. Tha—thank you…I—we, um…we can win!"

"Yeah," Abe says, and smiles. Then he turns Mihashi's hand over and brushes his lips across the back of it, and leads his pitcher into the dugout, the wake of their footsteps echoing in the concrete hall. Suyama counts to twenty before following them, presses his fingers into the tiles with one thought pounding in his head: that Abe will never forgive himself if they lose.

But they don't lose. And in the seconds of disbelief two and a half innings later, still struggling to hear the roar of the crowd over his pulse pounding in his ears, Suyama can only think that in three years he's never seen Mihashi pitch like that, every single play a masterpiece. He shoots a thumbs up to Mizutani racing in from left field, catches that incredible smile on Sakaeguchi's face—looks back to the mound in time to see Abe throw his mask off, grab Mihashi by the waist and lift him off his feet, spin him around and around. Suyama can't tell if the pitcher's laughing or crying. For a second, he thinks Abe's going to kiss him right there on the field—but Abe just presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes as Mihashi's arms sink onto his shoulders.

"You did it," Abe says, and Mihashi squirms, though not to get away.

"No," he tries to protest. "You—we—"

Then the mound is awash with all of them, laughing and high-fiving and Tajima whooping above the fray, and Suyama loses sight of the battery when Nishihiro barrels in from the dugout and throws an arm around his neck—but just before he's swallowed up in the crush, he decides _we_ is probably right: Mihashi pitching, and Abe catching, and the rest of them watching in awe the synergy of two people who belong right where they are, wrapped in each other's arms.

He hopes they figure that out without wasting any more time.


End file.
